


A Forest of Memories

by OnceSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesiac John, Angst, Angst and Feels, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Husbands to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Memory Loss, No Watson Baby, POV Sherlock Holmes, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, canon divergence - the six thatchers, mary died a natural cause, minor case, not the weird saving your ass even though i tried to kill you way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 04:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14276667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceSherlock/pseuds/OnceSherlock
Summary: “Er, so... by ‘we’, you mean me and...?” John asks. What a weird question. Obviously Sherlock means John and himself. He knows they’re married, so why doesn’t he assume they’re living together? It only clicks after a couple of seconds, but Sherlock feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest.“It’s just, I don’t know...”“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock interrupts with a lump in his throat. “My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Watson. Before we got married, I was Sherlock Holmes.”





	A Forest of Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful beta brainless-septiclock for the constant support and friendship!

I want you to  
Slow down  
I just want it all  
To slow down;  
I want to make a forest  
Of a moment  
And live in that forest  
For ever

Before you go.

(Matt Haig, How to stop time)

 

It’s been ten and a half years since John limped into a lab room at Bart’s, seven years since Sherlock’s return from the dead, five years since Mary died with her unborn child, three and a half years since Sherlock and John got together, almost two years since they got married, and three days since the worst day of Sherlock’s life. He had come close to feeling like dying before. The day he was shot by Mary, for example, or the day he overdosed and passed out in an alley, or the day he watched John getting married. But none of those days, none of the wounds he had endured during his time away, could ever compare to the feeling of watching the love of his life crash out of the windshield of a car and onto the bonnet. His heart had definitely stopped beating for a second and sunk down into the pit of his stomach. All he remembers is frantically opening the driver’s door of the parked car and pulling John’s body down onto the asphalt. He doesn’t remember checking his husband’s breathing, calling an ambulance or the panic-filled ride to the hospital. All he remembers is pain. 

Now, three days, eleven hours and seven minutes later, he’s still sitting in the chair next to the hospital bed, holding John’s hand, and waiting for John to finally come back to him. His face is covered with little cuts where the glass touched him. The doctors check in on John every now and then, trying to persuade Sherlock to go home and leave Dr. Watson in good hands, but Sherlock doesn’t really hear them. All sounds have turned into background noises, the beeping of the monitors around John the only sound keeping Sherlock from going insane. He hasn’t left this chair in three days, and he doesn’t intend to until John wakes up. He won’t leave this place without him. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, and even Mycroft have visited, along with some other relatives of John’s and Sherlock’s, like his sister-in-law Harry or Mummy and Daddy. Most of them cried at John’s side but seemed more than worried about Sherlock as well. They tried to convince him to leave to at least take a shower or eat something, anything, but they didn’t understand. How could anyone understand? The person in the bed next to him isn’t only Sherlock’s husband; he’s Sherlock’s best friend, his blogger, his conductor of light, and the love of his life. And the fact that he’s lying here is all Sherlock’s fault. 

It had been a warm summer evening in late August when Sherlock got bored and decided to phone Lestrade in search of a case. John was still at the surgery and the day without him had been dreadful and a complete waste so far. Since Greg didn’t have anything interesting, he told Sherlock about a series of burglaries going on in the south of London. He said he needed someone to observe the houses that were most likely to be in the burglar’s pattern this evening. Sherlock didn’t have anything better to do, so he accepted and went straight to Lestrade to pick up the car. Greg greeted him and threw the car keys at Sherlock with an eyebrow raise, and Sherlock offered him to come along. He had already texted John the exact spot where he wanted to spend the night observing and waiting for the burglars, so that he could join him after his shift. Greg declined the offer politely, murmuring that he didn’t intend to spend the night next to a snogging couple. That was alright with Sherlock, who had made similar plans already. He took Lestrade’s car and drove directly to the parking lot of a small supermarket near the predicted crime scene. He had a good view of the three houses most likely to be broken into from where he was. After a long hour, John finally arrived from the tube and joined him in the passenger’s seat. He gave Sherlock a brief kiss and told him all about his day at the clinic. It was already pitch black outside when he finished his story about the boy who had had a hiccup since last Wednesday. Sherlock was more than glad to have John with him and so they spent the next couple of hours in the car passing the time. When John caressed his curly hair and stroked the back of his neck unconsciously, like he had done so many times, Sherlock figured that the day might not have been such a waste after all. He was just observing his husband (almost forgetting about the potential burglary) with a content smile when it happened. He felt the bang of the car crashing into them from behind before he saw it. For a terribly long moment, he could see it all in slow motion – John’s eyes widening, the impact causing his body to slam forward and break right through the windshield, while Sherlock, who had his seatbelt still fastened from the drive, stayed in his seat. He heard the sound of glass cracking and then the sound of a body landing hard on the bonnet. 

A nurse comes in to check on John and tells Sherlock that his state is unchanged. What an utterly stupid deduction. Sherlock has already examined every inch of John’s body and would’ve noticed any change right away. He currently observes the rise and fall of John’s chest, as it turned out to be a soothing movement. 

“Mr. Watson, I’m afraid we can’t give you any news on your husband’s physical state. All we can do is wait until – “ 

“Until his body decides that he’s had enough rest and wakes up on his own,” Sherlock interrupts, repeating the words he has heard so many times by now. “He’s in a vegetative state caused by a traumatic brain injury. If he stays in this condition for four weeks, it’s going to be a persistent vegetative state, which would minimise the chances of his recovery significantly. Believe me, my husband’s a doctor and I’ve heard this all before.” 

“Well, if you’ve heard it all before, you probably know that you should get some sleep. It won’t be any help to your husband for you to stay here all the time and refuse nutrition and rest.”

Sherlock averts his gaze from John’s chest to the nurse. She’s giving him an encouraging smile, obviously trying her best to convince him. She’s not been in their room before, so she can’t know Sherlock’s previous responses to this suggestion. Her name tag says Nancy with a tiny elephant next to it, suggesting that the pediatric station is her usual working environment. She seems tired around her eyes, probably caused by being a single working mother of twins, but Sherlock can’t tell why she’s not involved with the other parent anymore. Even his deduction skills seem to have left him. 

Sherlock decides she doesn’t deserve the rude answer he’s given to many of the other incompetent doctors and nurses, and replies: “Thank you for the concern, Nancy, but I’d rather not leave my husband alone, which I’m sure you understand. Besides, I’ve slept less and had even less food before, so please stop worrying about me.” 

She seems fine with his answer, checks the rest of John’s figures and leaves. Sherlock can’t help but think that John would be proud of his politeness, could he hear him. If only he could hear him.

Once Sherlock is alone with John again, he shifts in his chair and resumes staring at the figure next to him. His back hurts from sitting in the same position for so long, and his throat feels as dry as sandpaper. He distantly recalls drinking a class of water this morning. Or was it yesterday? It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he gets John back as soon as possible. Sherlock blinks a couple of times to moist his eyes and plays with the golden ring on his finger again when all of a sudden he hears a sound. It’s coming from the bed next to him, only the tiniest of sounds like a combination of a cough and a whimper, and it’s the best noise Sherlock has ever heard. He almost trips over jumping out of the chair.

“John?! John, can you hear me?”

“Hmwrwhm.”

“Oh, thank god! Are you waking up?” The feeling currently flowing through Sherlock’s veins is indescribable - relief, joy, bliss, love, fear and happiness all at once. John, his John, is finally waking up! Sherlock removes his hand from John’s and carefully strokes over his cheek and his forehead that is damp from sweat. John seems to open his eyes slowly and Sherlock wants to cry at the sight. 

“What... wheremI?” John mumbles.

“Sshh, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay, John.”

John has now fully opened his eyes and stares at Sherlock, but it’s not his usual expression towards Sherlock (full of love, desire, or annoyance) and Sherlock notices instantly that something’s wrong.

“Is everything alright? Are you in pain?” he gasps, looking John up and down and searching for any signal of pain.

“’xcuse me, are you my doctor?” he asks while trying to lift his left hand. He manages to reach for Sherlock’s hand on his forehead and slowly takes it. Their wedding bands make a little _pling_ sound while clicking together. Just as Sherlock exhales a deep breath and starts to intertwine their fingers, John uses his fingers to move Sherlock’s hand away from him and onto the bed’s armrest. 

Just in that moment, Sherlock recognises the look on John’s face. It’s the expression he makes when he feels slightly uncomfortable, mostly around strangers who ask him inappropriate questions. Sherlock feels like he’s going to faint and tightens his grip on the armrest.

“John? You do know who I am, don’t you?” Even Sherlock can hear the panic in his voice. This can’t be true; it must all be a misunderstanding. John is only confused after waking up from a vegetative state. 

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember meeting you before, Doctor....?”

“Watson!” Sherlock can’t help but snap at him. This must be a nightmare, it must be! He has probably fallen asleep on that damn chair after all. But the thing is – no nightmare has ever felt so horrifying.

“Yes, that’s my name,” John responds. His voice is firmer now and he can already lift his head a bit. “So, what happened, Doctor? Why am I here?”

***

“Let me get back to my husband!” Sherlock snarls. “This is unacceptable!”

“Mr. Watson, please, calm down. Your husband doesn’t want to see you right now.” The words hurt more than John’s _I don’t mind_ from such a long time ago. The doctor who is currently standing in his way of the door crosses his arms in front of him and gives Sherlock a long look. He’s surrounded by two other doctors who have already examined John after Sherlock had pressed the alarm on John’s bedside. 

“I know this must be very hard for you, but Dr. Watson doesn’t remember you at the moment. He doesn’t seem to remember anything after his return from the war back in 2010, where he got injured as well. This is probably just a temporary case of retrograde amnesia, but a calming environment is crucial for your husband’s recovery.”

“How is that even possible?”

“A trauma to the head can shake up the human brain cells and cause dysfunctions. Apparently in this case, the memory centre of your husband’s brain was affected. He doesn’t remember events prior to the trauma. That’s what we call retrograde amnesia,” the doctor explains.

“I can’t...” Sherlock doesn’t know how to end the sentence. 

He’s never experienced such a rollercoaster ride of emotions before. He’s happy and relieved that John has finally woken up; and he’s miserable and terrified that John doesn’t remember him. How is this even possible? He has known John for over ten and a half years now. How can everything they’ve been through together – Moriarty, his faked death, Mary, Magnussen, the baby, their wedding – be nothing but the story of two strangers to John? How can it be that the person Sherlock loves most in the world doesn’t remember that he loves him back?

“We’ve already done the standard tests; his brain indicates normal activity. Considering his traumatic injury and the brain surgery it’s completely normal for him to suffer from temporary amnesia. Your husband is most likely going to wake up tomorrow and you’ll laugh at his confusion together.”

“And what if we don’t? Please save yourself and me the time and your standard optimistic responses for your other patients and be honest with me. What are the exact chances of his recovery? What can I do to help him remember? When should we consider his amnesia a permanent state?” Sherlock narrows his eyes at the doctor, anger crawling up inside him. 

The man takes a deep breath before replying. “The chances of his recovery are high, although there isn’t a chart to analyse and compare. You see, it’s different with each patient. From our current knowledge I’d say the chances that Dr. Watson will fully recover are at 89%. As for the other 11%, these patients never regain their memory. But, I assure you, we’re far from that point. If your husband still doesn’t remember anything by the end of the year, we could start to consider his state permanent from a medical point of view.”

Sherlock lets out a deep breath that comes out as a sob. This is horrible. The chances for John’s recovery are high, but that was probably the exact same thought of the relatives of those 11% too.

“What can I do to help him remember?”

“You can do anything from showing him pictures to bringing him to his usual environment and to places you frequented that should have a special meaning to him. But you shouldn’t push him. If you force him into doing something or if you give him the impression that the amnesia is his fault, it’ll only make it worse for the both of you.” 

“I would never force my husband into anything! I love him!” Sherlock’s anger intensifies. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t need some stupid doctor to tell him how to treat John. What does he know about their relationship or their marriage, anyway? 

“Now, when can I see him again? When can I bring him home?”

The doctor clears his throat before replying. “We’ll have to run a few more tests. We’d prefer to tell him everything about his current state while he’s still here, but after that you can go home. You’ll need to bring Dr. Watson in for regular checkups, but it’s best for him to get back to his usual environment as soon as possible.” 

He nods towards his companions, who leave for John’s room. 

“You really shouldn’t worry too much, Mr. Watson, I’m sure it’ll all come back to him soon,” he adds.

Half an hour later, after the medical tests, John has calmed down enough for Sherlock and Dr. Molder (who told Sherlock that he had already introduced himself three days ago) to enter his room again. Sherlock called Mycroft to inform him about John’s state, and asked him to inform everyone else. He can’t deal with that right now. The room is humid and hot, but the window is open enough to let in a warm summer breeze. John is still lying in his bed, brows furrowed and arms crossed, looking up at Sherlock and the doctor expectantly.

“Dr. Watson, I’m sure you’ve got questions.”

John only nods. He eyes Sherlock with a curious, yet distant look and Sherlock has to look away. It’s already too much to bear. 

The doctor explains most of the events to John, telling him that he’s had an accident and a major brain surgery; that he woke up after three days of a vegetative state; that he suffers from retrograde amnesia and that instead of January 2010 it’s August 2020. John’s eyes widen at the explanation and for a moment Sherlock thinks John’s about to start crying, but his face hardens instead. Ever the soldier. Dr. Molder deliberately leaves out details about John’s personal life in the last decade, and turns to look at Sherlock to do the explaining thereof. Sherlock shifts his weight from one foot to the other and starts talking. It feels more than uncomfortable to talk to John in this formal manner, being so unacceptably far away from him.

“John, as you apparently don’t remember anything from the last few years, I want to give you some details about your life, until you remember everything on your own.” He takes a deep breath.

“You and I are married,” he blurts out. 

This was not how he intended to say it, but Sherlock hopes that the declaration will make John remember. It doesn’t. Instead, John’s mouth shapes into a silent O, he starts coughing and then raises an eyebrow questioningly, clearly not believing Sherlock anything. 

“I know, I know, you didn’t... you don’t go out with guys, but we were friends first, best friends, really, and then you had a wife, but she... she passed away and we, sort of...” Suddenly Sherlock realises that their life together is more complicated to explain than he anticipated and also that he doesn’t like sharing the details with this Dr. Molder standing right next to him. He wants nothing more than to touch John, hug him, and kiss him until he remembers. 

“Wait a second, I got married twice?! My wife passed away? When did that happen?” John asks. There is pure horror on his face. Sherlock briefly thinks about jumping out of the window. How is he supposed to tell John all about Mary and their baby? How is John supposed to believe him any of it? 

“How about you go home with your husband and talk about the details then?” Dr Molder saves Sherlock from having to respond.

John gives the doctor and Sherlock a long look. “Okay. Okay, maybe that’s for the best,” he finally says. “I should probably get changed then.” He looks around the room for his clothes, which Mrs. Hudson had brought with her the very first night she visited. 

Dr Molder leaves to give John some privacy and Sherlock offers his hand to help John get up. John takes it and slowly moves towards the pile of clothes in the corner of the room. He looks at the clothes, then at Sherlock, then at the clothes again.

“Could you maybe...?” He starts. Sherlock needs a minute to register what he’s asking him to do. He feels a stab in his heart, but tries to smile at John, nods, and leaves the room.

Once John emerges from his hospital room, he almost looks like himself again. Sherlock is so relieved to see him standing and walking and just living again that he almost forgets that John doesn’t remember him. He takes a step forward to kiss him but stops himself in the last instance. 

“So, shall we leave?” 

“Yes, okay.” John seems insecure. He doesn’t know where to go, so Sherlock reaches for his hand, as usual, and is surprised to feel John’s hand stiffen. 

“I’ll show you the way,” Sherlock explains and guides John out of the hospital, towards the cab already waiting for them. Sherlock holds the door open for John and double checks whether he has buckled his seat belt before fastening his own. He tells the driver to drop them off at 221B Baker Street and sees John’s questioning expression in the seat next to him.

“We live there, it’s in central London,” he tells John. John nods again and clears his throat. He looks down at his fingers and clenches his hand into a fist. Something is obviously bothering him. 

“Er, so... by ‘we’, you mean me and...?” John asks. What a weird question. Obviously Sherlock means John and himself. He knows they’re married, so why doesn’t he assume they’re living together? It only clicks after a couple of seconds, but Sherlock feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest.

“It’s just, I don’t know...”

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock interrupts with a lump in his throat. “My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Watson. Before we got married, I was Sherlock Holmes.”

***

“So this is our flat?” John asks. 

They’re standing in the living room of 221B and Sherlock can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed by the messiness of their home. There are piles of magazines everywhere, a microscope and plenty of Petri dishes on the kitchen counter and books on the coffee table. In short, the room looks just like it always does after a long case. Mrs. Hudson greeted them downstairs, thankfully already being informed about John’s amnesia. Temporary amnesia. She introduced herself to John and they shook hands, which was more than awkward for Sherlock to watch. Now that they’re left alone in their home, Sherlock will have to do some explaining. John enters the flat and instinctively sits down in his chair. Sherlock takes it as a good sign. He settles in his own and slightly bends forward. Where does he even start?

“It would be nice if you could explain everything to me,” John starts. He sinks deeper into his chair, increasing the space between them. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and begins. He tells John everything, from their meeting back in 2010, the next one and a half years of wild chases through London, his faked suicide, his return in 2013 and how he found John engaged to Mary. John only interrupts him with short questions occasionally, but his expressions change back and forth from wonder to amazement to disbelief to sadness to curiousness. Sherlock also tells John about his and Mary’s wedding and how he found out Mary was pregnant, even though the memories never fail to hurt him. He tells John about Mary’s past vaguely, and when he explains that Mary shot him John’s expression turns into horror. 

“That sounds like we’re living inside some kind of action-movie.”

Sherlock suppresses a smile before continuing. “I’ve never thought about that, but repeating everything out loud does make it seem so. Does anything up to this point sound familiar?”

John’s face is soft and tender when he slowly shakes his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

Sherlock exhales loudly. “That’s fine, it’ll come to you. So, where was I? After Mary shot me, I recovered the next couple of months with your help. On Christmas, we met Mary at my parent’s house. That was also the day when I silenced the man who threatened to ruin her.”

“ Wait a second, so we were still in contact with her?”

Sherlock’s heart makes a little jump at the pronoun. “Yes, you returned to her.”

“What the hell was I thinking?” John blurts out.

“Well, technically I more or less convinced you that she had saved my life. You weren’t too happy at first, but you came to your senses eventually. She was not only pregnant with your child; she was also the better choice for you back then. She was able to give you what I thought I never could.” Sherlock has to stop himself for a second, as the emotions flood him. 

“Anyway, his name was Charles Augustus Magnussen, and I shot him in front of you and some important people from the government, including my brother.”

“You killed an unarmed man? Why did you do that?” Sherlock can hear disbelief, but also disappointment in John’s voice and he hates it. He hates that he has to go through this again, has to see John’s reactions and relieve some of the worst parts of their past.

“Magnussen wasn’t a good man and he had Mary, and therefore you, under his control. He could’ve destroyed your life at any point, and I couldn’t risk that. He wanted to play games with you. It started right there before I shot him when he flicked your face several times simply because he could. He had a power over you that couldn’t be taken away from him otherwise. So it was my only choice.”

John seems to think about that for a while. He looks up and stares into Sherlock’s eyes before asking: “But why did you do that for me? It could’ve ruined your life; you could’ve ended up in prison!”

Sherlock briefly presses his lips together. John didn’t know back then so how was he supposed to know now? 

“Because I love you, John. I have loved you since the day I saw you at the pool with explosives strapped to your body.”

He can see John swallow hard at the confession. “I’m sorry, this is just all so overwhelming.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, too.” 

Sherlock continues narrating the events of their life. Somehow he imagined it would be a mere enumeration of facts to him, but it’s not. Once he explains that Mary and her unborn child both died during the delivery, John stiffens and Sherlock sees his left hand clench into a fist. Sherlock wants to do something, anything, to help John. He wants to erase the pain from John’s face, the pain of having lost a family he doesn’t even remember. He wants to take John’s face in his hands and promise him that everything will be alright. Expect he can’t promise that. Sherlock cannot begin to understand how hard it must be to be going through all of this again, even through a narration. He’s not sure whether it’s not too much for John to take, but he wants to get it over with. 

“So how did we get... together?” John finally asks. Sherlock can feel that it’s making John uncomfortable. He reminds himself that, to John, he is a complete stranger at the moment, who tells him they are married and engage in all sorts of activities together. It still hurts more than he could have ever imagined.

“I sort of accidentally confessed my feelings to you when we were fighting, and that’s when we figured out our feelings were requited. It was January the third, 2017, 04:35 pm. You were wearing your grey Christmas jumper that day and you looked utterly ridiculous,” he adds, trying to ease the tension in the room.

“You remember what I wore?!” John giggles slightly and it’s the second best sound Sherlock has heard all day, almost as wonderful as John’s _hmwrwhm_ from earlier. 

“Of course I remember. It was the best day of my life.” 

When John looks down at his hands again Sherlock realises what he’s just said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that –”

“It’s fine. Hopefully I’ll remember it as well,” John interrupts. He gives Sherlock an encouraging grin and for a second Sherlock thinks he might be back – really back – but John resumes his questions about their lives. 

After a shortened version of the last decade is packed into three hours of talking, John decides that he wants to get some sleep. He wasn’t very eager to find out the details of his proposal or their wedding, so Sherlock decides to leave that for another time. Maybe it’s best to tell him all about that while they’re at the places the events happened, so that John can remember more easily. After showing John the rest of the flat he follows him into the bathroom where they brush their teeth in silence. John is understandably not hungry and Sherlock couldn’t care less about his transport at the moment. Once ready for bed, they emerge from the bathroom and Sherlock holds the bedroom door open for John. When he follows him, his husband is standing in the middle of the room looking utterly lost. He looks at the bed with the two pillows, two bed sheets, two night stands and the other obvious signs of it being occupied by a couple.

“Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah, er, I dunno. Would you mind? Just for tonight?” John replies. He’s probably feeling guilty, even though there’s no need to. This whole nightmare is all Sherlock’s fault. He’d be damned if he doesn’t do everything in his power to make the situation as comfortable as possible for John. 

“Yes, it’s fine. It’s absolutely fine.” Sherlock has already half left when he turns back around towards John hesitantly. 

“Can I ask you one thing, John? You can say no if you don’t want to.”

“Of course, what is it?” 

Sherlock feels as timid as in the days when they first got together and he asked John every time if he could kiss him. “Can I hug you? It’s just that I missed you so much these last three days, and I...” He lets the sentence trail off. He realises how desperate and needy he sounds, but this is John, his John, and he would give anything to hold him right now.

John nods understandingly and takes a step forward, closer to Sherlock. He looks him in the eyes and Sherlock could lose himself in the depth of John’s. 

“Sure, Sherlock. I’ve been spending so much time pitying myself that I haven’t even thought about what you’ve gone through in the last couple of days. C’me here.” 

And with that, he envelopes Sherlock into a small embrace. Sherlock inhales as much as he can from John and places his hands on John’s back. He closes his eyes and focuses on the rise and fall of John’s chest, remembering that John has finally woken up and is home where he belongs. It doesn’t feel like their usual hugs, though, because John only pats him on the back lightly as if he was hugging an old friend. Christ, even Lestrade hugged Sherlock more intensely when he had returned from the dead. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed for another second, trying to enjoy the moment, but it feels different, almost wrong. He loosens his grip on John’s back and takes a step backwards.

“Thank you. I’ll see you in the morning then,” he says and it sounds too formal.

John clears his throat. “Okay. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lies on the sofa later that night, still wide awake. Even though he hasn’t slept in three days, his eyes can’t seem to close now. He stares into the darkness of the living room, his mind swirling. He needs to fix this as soon as possible. Sherlock was so happy when John woke up that he thought this day might beat the day of their first kiss so many years ago. Now he’s not sure whether this day has been one of the best or worst days of his life. He should be more than thankful that he’s finally got John back, but the thing is that this isn’t his John, not completely. He’s got the John from ten years ago back, which of course is still better than any version of any other human being, but it’s also not enough. Not anymore. He needs the John that knows him, bickers with him, kisses him, makes tea for him, admires his deductions, orders Chinese and watches crap telly with him, loves him. How can he get him back? How can he make the love of his life fall in love with him again?

***

Sherlock awakes early the next morning with a back pain he hasn’t felt in years. He rolls his neck around to ease the tension and wishes he could cure John’s amnesia just as easily. There’s no light in the bathroom, so John’s probably still asleep. Sherlock decides to prepare tea and a small breakfast. When John finally emerges from their room, the tea is cold and the toast is dry. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock says and scans John with his eyes. When John looks at him without a spark in his eyes, Sherlock loses all hope that John was magically cured overnight. 

“Morning,” he replies. 

“How are you feeling today?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” There’s an awkward pause between them. “Can I help you with this?”

“No, I’m already finished. Let me just make some fresh tea.”

They sit down and have breakfast together. John is quiet and Sherlock tries to overplay the situation by telling him more about their life. He has already made some sort of a plan on how to regain John’s memory. He texted Lestrade last night when he couldn’t sleep, declining all future cases for the next couple of days? weeks? months?– until John remembered. Sherlock has also mentally prepared a map of all the places he intends to visit with John, starting with Bart’s today. If this weren’t the most horrible thing he’s ever experienced, he could probably enjoy a walk down memory lane of his and John’s past. 

“So, you’re saying that your brother is basically the British government, that our closest friends are a DI and a pathologist and that our landlady is like a mother to us?”

“Yes, exactly. You’re learning fast, that’s a good sign.”

“Wait a second... is the Queen still alive? And who’s the president of the United States? Oh god, I can’t believe I’ve missed the last ten years of my life!”

Sherlock hears the desperation in John’s tone. If John knew that his amnesia was Sherlock’s fault, he’d probably leave him before Sherlock had the chance to make him fall in love with him again. Better keep that information for later when the John was back who knew how much of an idiot Sherlock was and still loved him.

“Er, the Queen is probably still alive, although my last update on that is six years ago...” _on your first stag night_ “... but I haven’t heard otherwise from you since, so I’m assuming she’s immortal. As for the president, I’ve heard that the last one was some moron who got fired last year, and now there’s this woman in charge from the other party, I needed the information for a case last December.”

“You don’t know much about politics, do you?” John asks with a smirk.

“That has always been your area of interest.”

John shifts in his chair and takes another sip of his tea.

“Then tell me about your areas of interest. I don’t care what profession your brother has, I want to know more about you.” He clears his throat and adds: “About my husband.”

The visible reluctance for the last two words makes Sherlock’s heart sink. Never in a thousand years would he have believed that one day John would say _my husband_ in reference to him; and when it finally happened he would’ve never believed that John would ever say it with such discomfort.

“Well, as you know I’m a consulting detective and therefore I’m interested in forensics, chemistry, biology and deductions, obviously.” He bites in his toast to buy himself some time to think of something interesting to tell John. “Of course my main area of interest in the last decade has been the study of John Watson,” he adds.

John’s face reddens visibly. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, when we became flatmates, I studied the texture of your jumpers, the percentage of grey and blond hairs on your scalp and the responses you had to my dressing gowns, among other things. But these were just the calculable, obvious things. Even though I’ve spent so much time by your side, you still remain a mystery to me. That’s what I always found so intriguing about you. You’re like the double side of a coin: you’re a doctor, which means that you heal people, but you’re also a soldier; on the first glance one might find you an average looking man, but upon closer look you’re the complete opposite of ordinary; you have a warm heart and always care about others, but you’re also brave and strong and protective. You’ve saved my life so many times with your gun; but even more times with your heart.”

Sherlock stops. John looks intimidated and Sherlock already half expects him to run to his coat and storm off, if he’s anything like the John from ten years ago. Instead, John reaches for Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezes it with his hand, then rests it there and smiles. 

“You know I don’t think anyone’s ever complimented me this way before. I hope I truly am the man you describe me to be.”

Sherlock stares into the deep blue eyes he’s seen so many times, the eyes he could still lose himself in. “You are so much more, John.”

***

After breakfast, Sherlock explains his plan to John. John seems eager to get his memories back and suggests they go to Bart’s right away. When they’re standing in the lab where they first met, the significance only reveals itself to one of them. John looks around and inspects the room, but sadly shakes his head when Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him questioningly. They even visit the morgue, where Molly introduces herself to John with a joke that’s a bit out of place, but John laughs anyway. She offers Sherlock to come over whenever he needs help with something that John used to do (cleaning the flat, for example), and Sherlock is thankful for having her as a friend. When the morgue doesn’t ring any bells to John, Sherlock takes him to the park where John had proposed to him on the tenth of April in 2018.

The day John and Sherlock decided to get married was a cloudy, rainy day in spring. It had been raining continuously for the last couple of days, and the London atmosphere was as dark and depressed as it could’ve been. Sherlock and John had spent the day bickering about something tedious that Sherlock had already deleted when Greg came around asking for help on his latest case. He had been working on it for two days but had reached a dead end and was finally willing to let John and Sherlock in on it. The case was interesting, yet predictable, merely a four on the scale. However, it required John and Sherlock to get outside and enjoy a good chase across the city, something they’d not done in a while. The chase eased the tension off them and cured the boredom Sherlock had been suffering from the past couple of days. When they finally caught the man who had killed his stepfather for his inheritance, dawn was beginning to break. John decided they should walk back home even though it was still raining. Sherlock didn’t mind. They walked hand in hand, which Sherlock was still getting used to, even after more than a year. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe that John voluntarily displayed his affection for Sherlock in public. The two of them being together had been a real stake for the press and several boulevard papers, but John never complained about the rubbish that was being written about him. As they were walking through a park, Sherlock suddenly stopped.

“What’s the matter, Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock let go of his hand to near one of the swings. The park was dead silent, and the rain kept pouring down on them. “Did you know that my mother never let me go on a swing after I’d broken my foot once?” 

“What? No, I don’t think you’ve ever told me that. That’s awful!” 

Sherlock looked around to make sure they were alone. “Would you hate me if I tried it again?” 

He heard John’s giggle from behind. “No, absolutely not. Go ahead.” 

John came closer to the swing and leaned himself on the girder on one side of the swing, crossing his arms and smiling somewhat suspiciously. Sherlock decided to give it a try and sat down on the swing. It was wet and tiny, but not too small for Sherlock to actually sit down. His long legs reached the sand underneath him without a problem, so he ducked his knees in order to be able to lift up. Once he pushed enough to actually swing, his coat billowed around him like a cape, and he enjoyed it immensely. He closed his eyes against the rain, and enjoyed the feeling of complete happiness and freedom for a while. When he opened his eyes again, he looked over to where John was standing and was rewarded with a big smile across John’s face. He stopped swinging but stayed in the seat.

“What?” He smiled back

“Nothing,” John replied. He came over to the swing and stood still in front of Sherlock. He was taller this way, so Sherlock craned his neck to look up at him. John reached down and kissed Sherlock, only the lightest of touches.

Sherlock noticed that John was still grinning and eyeing him afterwards. He was staring at him so intensely that it was starting to scare Sherlock a bit. The knowledge of finally being allowed to stare at John, without having to fear that he’d notice, still overwhelmed Sherlock sometimes. 

“What’s the matter? Do you want a try?” Sherlock asked, trying to stand up from the swing, but John was blocking his way. He shook his head but didn’t make an attempt to move.

Tiny raindrops fell down on John’s face and dripped from his fringe when he said: “Marry me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had apparently lost his mind. He blinked several times, feeling the same sensation rushing through him like when he first found out that John considered him his best friend. Only this time it was even bigger, even better. John still stared into his eyes when Sherlock finally replied.

“Do you really... you mean... are you sure?” Was all he was capable of saying. His heart was beating too fast and for a moment he forgot to breathe.

“Yes, Sherlock. God, I love you. I love you so much. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He lifted his hand to gently touch Sherlock’s face. “That is, if you’re interested.”

Sherlock figured that John was beginning to doubt the affirmation of his reply, so he rushed out an answer.

“Yes, of course, John. Yes. You know that you’re the only person I’ve ever loved, and you will be until the end of my days.” He reached up to John and pulled him close with his hand on John’s coat collar and the other on his back. Sherlock kissed John like they weren’t on a swing in a park in the rain; like they were the only two people in the world. 

Sherlock is sitting on the same swing with John in front of him now. He carefully takes John’s hands into his own and takes a deep breath. He stares at John’s wedding band for a while and then looks up into John’s face, which he has last seen in this exact spot filled with love and desire. Now it’s filled with doubt, concern, and possibly guilt. 

“And then you said ‘Marry me, Sherlock.’” He traces John’s band with a finger. “Does that sound familiar?”

John slowly retrieves his hands from Sherlock before answering. “No, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock hears a rushing in his ears, and his fingers feel numb where John stopped touching them. If he doesn’t remember this, one of the most perfect moments of their lives, how will he ever remember anything else? 

“Christ, when will I finally remember?” John asks and pinches the back of his nose with his freed fingers. “This is a bloody nightmare.”

“I know,” is all Sherlock replies.

***

In the next couple of weeks, Sherlock tries everything in his power to make John remember. He shows him pictures of their wedding, makes John read his blog entries, visits Angelo’s and several other of their favourite restaurants with him, and even invites other people to come over and talk to John. It’s boring and tedious, having all these people (especially Mycroft) over that they usually only see every other month, and Sherlock keeps repeating to himself that it’s all for John. But while John’s physical wounds of the accident start to disappear, his psychological state doesn’t change. 

In between all of the visitors and restaurants, Sherlock lets John get to know him again. They spend their days almost like they used to in between cases, expect they never touch and John doesn’t bicker with him. He doesn’t even complain about body parts in the fridge anymore. He seems too careful not to hurt Sherlock, or he simply doesn’t care at all. But never once has he taken his ring off. Sherlock still sleeps on the sofa, because he can’t bear to go up to John’s old room and transport himself back to 2010. 

The worst thing of all is that, even though it’s selfish and not understandable and horrible to even think about, Sherlock starts to get angry with John. He can’t even explain why – because this is all Sherlock’s fault and John is doing his best to remember – but sometimes between all the understanding and consideration he feels the tiniest bit of anger flickering inside him.

September rushes past, and all of a sudden it’s October and John still doesn’t remember anything. They’ve spent a particularly long day with Stamford, because he’s one of the only people in London whose company John seems to enjoy. They talked about their old days at Bart’s, and Sherlock, having nothing to add to the conversation, felt quite left out. 

Back at the flat, Mrs. Hudson greets them by the door and Sherlock decides to stay with her for tea. John kindly declines, saying that he’s a bit tired and intends to lay down for a while. When John has trotted up the seventeen steps to 221B, Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock sit down in her kitchen and talk about John’s state. She’s just as worried as Sherlock that John might not regain his memory. It’s something Sherlock avoids thinking about, because how could he imagine a life with John only as his friend, now that he knows what it’s like with John as his husband? They chatter through three cups of tea until Sherlock decides to go back up and look after John.

Upstairs, the flat is unusually quiet. Sherlock remembers John talking about lying down earlier, so he relaxes a bit and goes to the bathroom. He freezes when he opens the door and sees John standing next to the shower, completely naked. John gives a sound of surprise and quickly grabs his towel from the toilet seat to wrap around himself. Sherlock can’t help but smile. 

“Oi, what are you doing here?” 

“Er, I’m sorry, I was just going to use the loo...” Sherlock starts.

“I was about to take a shower,” John explains, wrapping the towel tighter around his waist. His broad shoulders and bare chest make Sherlock forget what he was about to say. It has been too long since he’s last seen, let alone touch, them.

“Let me just get out so you can use the toilet first,” John adds. He slips past Sherlock and brushes him with his arm while passing through the door. 

Sherlock turns around and stares at John. For a moment, John returns his look, and their eyes meet. 

“John, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

John’s stare turns into a grin and his face reddens a bit. “I know, I know, but... sorry, I’m being irrational.” And then he does the most wonderful thing, he starts to giggle.

Sherlock, like usual, joins him, because John’s laugh is addictive and infectious and absolutely beautiful. 

When they have calmed down, Sherlock closes the door, uses the toilet and lets John alone in the bathroom, afterwards. He cannot help but feel the tiniest bit of hope blossoming inside him. 

While the shower is still running, he picks up his violin from its case. Dust has settled on it from being unused for the last six weeks. After tightening and rosining the bow, Sherlock tunes by ear for the perfect pitch. When he plays the first note, it comes out automatically. Sherlock lets the melody of the song he wrote for his and John’s wedding flow through his fingers, his veins, and into his heart. He closes his eyes, his body facing the window, and for the first time in weeks he forgets all of his problems, his worries and sorrows, and allows himself to remember the time he played this song during one of the best moments of his life.

He remembers how beautiful John looked in his black tuxedo that day, a warm autumn day in early September. How John held his hand in the garden of the beekeeping club; their closest family and friends surrounding them. How he slid the golden wedding band onto his ring finger. How John smiled when their eyes met. How his blue eyes misted when Sherlock played this song. How John kissed him afterwards and how Sherlock wished to be able to live in that moment forever. 

A moment of perfection that John doesn’t remember. 

When he’s finished, he opens his eyes and turns around to see John standing in the living room, with wet hair and the same towel wrapped around him, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

“Oh my god, Sherlock, that was amazing.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replies.

“What was that? I don’t think I’ve heard this before.”

“It’s a piece that I wrote for our wedding. It’s called ‘The Vow’.” He slowly places the violin back into the case and sits down in his chair. John’s eyes follow his movement, but he doesn’t sit down himself.

“Did we exchange vows when we got married?” John asks. It’s the first time he’s asked a question about their wedding. 

“Yes. I had already made a vow before once and had called it my first and last one, but it turned out that I was wrong, which I never am – ” 

John interrupts him with a smirk. “So, what did we vow to each other?”

Sherlock looks up into John’s deep blue eyes and continues. “I vowed to have the patience that love demands, to speak when words are needed and to share the silence when they are not, to agree to disagree on your choice of jumpers, and to love and protect you until the end of time.”

He can see that John’s clearly moved by his words, but he doesn’t say anything for a long time. 

“I then proceeded to play the melody you just heard,” Sherlock adds. He doesn’t say that John vowed to never forget that they have a once in a lifetime love, and promised that no matter what challenges might carry them apart, they’d always find a way back to each other.

“It’s really beautiful. You should play more often,” John finally says. His voice is deep and he clears his throat.

Sherlock smirks, because how could John know that he’s already asked that several times. John gives him one last smile before he leaves for their room, and Sherlock thinks that John might start to see him the way he miraculously started seeing him in 2016. 

***

Greg calls Sherlock a week later, begging him to help him out on a case. Apparently, a man had been found dead three days ago in his garden pond with high levels of alcohol in his bloodstream. His lungs were full of water and his face was grey; his inability to swim had obviously cost him his life. Everything pointed at a tragic accident, but the victim’s wife is convinced that her brother-in-law killed her husband. The brother, Keith Downing, however, has a cast iron alibi. Sherlock was unsure what to do; one the one hand he craved a new case, on the other he had promised to only resume working once John’s memories were back. When John overheard his conversation with Lestrade, he encouraged Sherlock to take it and offered to come along.

Now they’re standing at the crime scene, in the garden behind the house of the victim Jack Downing. The body has already been taken to the morgue, where the examination determined the cause of death: drowning. 

“We already talked to the lad’s wife,” Lestrade explains with his arms crossed, “and she thinks it was his brother Keith. He would inherit their father’s house if his elder brother died. She says that her husband never drank much alcohol, and that he was only drunk because of his friend’s stag night.”

“Tell me more about her,” Sherlock says while ducking down towards the flower bed beside the wall of the house. He can feel John’s gaze on him, who’s standing next to him on the gravel path.

“Well, she seemed a bit superstitious – claimed it was partly her fault her husband died because she’d dropped a mirror or something. Otherwise she’s a pretty ordinary woman,” Lestrade replies. 

“Superstitious? Interesting. What about the brother?” 

“We’ve had him in for questioning but he’s got an alibi. During the week, he’s always in Scotland and there he was when Jack Downing died. The man had no enemies. Honestly we all think it’s an accident; the mate couldn’t swim, it was dark, he was drunk and probably fell into the pond. I only asked you to confirm it so that we can convince the wife,” Lestrade continues.

“Isn’t that a bit fast for a definite judgment?” Sherlock hears John asking. He needs to smile. In this way, John has always been the same.

“In dubio pro reo,” Lestrade replies.

Sherlock turns back around after having found no footprints in the flower bed. He takes a closer look at the pond, but there’s nothing unusual there. When he turns his attention to the path the three of them are standing on, he kneels down after something has caught his attention. After a closer examination, he stands back up and grins at Lestrade. 

“As ever, Scotland Yard has missed everything of importance. Jack Downing was in fact killed by his brother. You can arrest him if he has a green ladder.”

Sherlock enjoys the looks of confusion on Greg and John’s faces. 

“Wait, what?!” John is the first to ask. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath to shoot out his deduction: “Do you see that in the gravel, right here? These are traces of green paint, in two specific patches, about a metre apart. So, a ladder, obviously. There are no windows in the wall so it’s an unusual place to put a ladder. And if you were to put a ladder here, you’d put it in the flower bed, not on the path. Conclusion: The ladder was brought to the house and placed here on purpose. Since Jack’s wife is superstitious, balance of probability tells us that she shares common interests with her husband and that, therefore, he was superstitious, as well. Keith probably knew about his brother’s superstition and arranged for a friend to put a green ladder here once Jack was out of the house for his friend’s stag night. So, Jack drinks a bit too much, returns home in the dark, doesn’t want to walk under the ladder so walks around it, straight into the pond where he drowns. If Keith Downing has a green ladder, he’s the murderer.”

“That’s brilliant.” John’s face has turned into a mixture of astonishment and amazement, the same expression Sherlock has seen on their very first case together and continued to see through all the years they have been working together. It finally feels like old times. 

Lestrade only stares at Sherlock and sighs. 

In the cab back home, John turns at Sherlock and raises an eyebrow.

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asks. He hasn’t gotten used to them not holding hands in cabs anymore, yet. 

“What you explained earlier, about the balance of...”

“Balance of probability? I use a variety of data and statistics to estimate the probability of a certain incident or action.”

“So, basically, you guess?”

“I never guess,” Sherlock says. He covers his mouth with the palm of his hand to hide his grin. 

***

Back at home, something feels different. There’s a sort of electricity in the atmosphere that hasn’t been there in the last two months. Sherlock wonders if John can feel it, too. Maybe it’s just the fact that they’ve finally done something other than eating and talking. Of course such a minor case doesn’t compare to the thrill of the chase, but it’s a start. The way John looked at him during the deduction makes Sherlock’s stomach swirl. 

After dinner, they sit down on the sofa to watch some telly. John has been particularly enjoying torturing Sherlock with James Bond movies since he lost his memories. If Sherlock had known beforehand how many of these dull films existed he never would’ve agreed to a James Bond marathon. But John seems to enjoy it and that’s enough reason for Sherlock.

When the film starts John sits down a couple of inches closer than he usually does, and Sherlock feels the warmth of John’s body radiating next to him. He leans closer to John, trying to enjoy something he used to have every day. Sherlock isn’t really listening to the film. He deduced who the killer was after five minutes and therefore spends the time enjoying John’s proximity. In the middle of the film, John suddenly presses pause and turns his focus to Sherlock.

“Er, Sherlock, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”

Sherlock gives John what he hopes is an encouraging look.

“I just wanted to thank you, for being so supportive and understanding of my – of our situation. The way you take care of me is more than I could ever ask for. I hope you know that I don’t take this for granted.” He shifts his position even closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock has to swallow hard. He should tell John that he’s got no reason to thank him. In fact, John should yell at him, beat him, hate him, if he knew the truth. But something is holding Sherlock back from confessing to John. They’ve made such good progress this past week; he doesn’t want to ruin what they’re carefully starting to rebuilt.

“John, really, there’s no need to thank me. You’re my husband; I promised to always be there for you and love you in good and bad times; and I intend to keep that promise.”

“That’s...” John starts, but he stares at Sherlock’s lips while doing so. He doesn’t say anything after that, instead slowly tilts his head forward.

Sherlock blinks rapidly; his heart beating ridiculously fast considering that he’s kissed John a thousand times before. He closes the remaining distance between them until their breaths mingle and John lightly presses his lips against Sherlock’s.

It is sweet and innocent at first, just light pressing of lips against one another again and again, until John opens his mouth and deepens the kiss. Sherlock takes the back of John’s hair in his hand and feels John carefully touching the side of his face. When their tongues slide against each other it feels glorious; and Sherlock can’t believe he managed to survive without kissing John for so long. John slightly groans and Sherlock pulls him even closer. 

He realises his erection is already pressing hard against his trousers but he tries to tone his desire down. His husband probably doesn’t want to sleep with a man he’s only ‘known’ for less than two months. John starts to run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and lightly caresses his scalp; and it’s something he’s done so many times that Sherlock is sure for a moment that John remembers, the movement being too natural. That’s when Sherlock realises that, no matter if John will ever get his memories back or not, he will always be his John and Sherlock will always love him. 

And that’s when he also realises with a shattering clarity that he has to tell John the truth. And that it can’t wait any longer.

Reluctantly, he pulls away. John slowly opens his eyes and gives Sherlock a questioning look, which is still so full of desire that Sherlock hates himself for breaking apart. But he needs to tell John the truth now, or else he feels like betraying John.

“Is something wrong?” John asks and his voice is husky and deep.

“John, I need to tell you something before we continue. You should know that I...” he takes a deep breath. “That the accident – it was my fault.”

John’s eyes widen and he furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

“The day of your accident, I was bored and begged Lestrade for a case. He offered me to watch some houses which were likely to be the victims of a series of burglary from his car, and I texted you to come along after your shift. When you came to the parking lot you never buckled your seat belt because we were parked, and it wasn’t really necessary. Then the other car hit us because the driver lost control and you crashed through the windshield. All because of me.”

He stares into John’s eyes, waiting for a reaction. John stays silent, obviously deep in thought. When he finally speaks his voice is less tender, but not as angry as Sherlock would have expected.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know how. I wanted to wait until you remembered, but now I know that you might never gain your memories back; and that’s okay, because you’re still my John; but I needed to tell you. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock can see the anger crawling onto his husband’s face. “Oh so that’s the issue here? You were afraid I wasn’t _yours_ anymore?”

“No, that’s not what I meant –“ Sherlock starts desperately. This conversation has taken quite a different path than he anticipated.

“Well, it bloody sounds like it,” John yells and jumps to his feet. 

“Do you have any idea how hard this is for me? One day I come back from the war in 2010 and the next day I’m married to a man I don’t even know and it’s ten years later. I’ve missed a decade of my life, Sherlock! I was married to someone who’s dead and who I can’t even grief because I don’t remember her! I lost a child I don’t even remember having in the first place! And that’s not even it; I also feel guilty towards you all the time. I know what I said earlier, and I mean it, I really am thankful for your patience; but don’t you think I realise that you’d rather be with the old version of me?! That you’re upset with me for not remembering you?” John is now screaming.

“John, I –“

“No,” John interrupts him. “I’d rather you not lie to me anymore, Sherlock. We both know it’s true. You know I’d love to get my memories back, but I can’t do anything about it. This whole situation is a fucking mess!”

With that, John turns around and heads to their bedroom. Sherlock stays on the sofa, frozen in place; frozen in this horrible moment of time that he and John will both never forget.

***

Sherlock and John don’t talk about their fight the next day. Or the day after that. They don’t kiss anymore, either. They both try to ignore the tension between them and avoid sitting on the sofa at the same time. Days turn into weeks and Sherlock doesn’t remember the last time their relationship has been this distanced. He doesn’t know what to do; John is usually the one who knows what to do, except he can’t ask him for help now. They still go through their routine of visiting places, watching photos and visiting acquaintances, only now it seems like they’re not making any progress, at all. In the evenings, the silence stretches between them and Sherlock focuses his attention to solving cold cases from the 19th century. John, on the other hand, keeps spending more and more time on his phone, and tries to turn the screen away from Sherlock suspiciously often.

One day in mid November, Sherlock can’t take it any longer and decides to spy on his husband. He knows this might be considered morally wrong, but he’s never really cared much about morals, anyway. When John is in the shower, Sherlock tiptoes past the bathroom into the bedroom and searches for the phone. He finds it not on the nightstand where John would usually place it, but in the drawer. Curious. Sherlock sits down on the bed and quickly flips through John’s messages. Apart from a few texts from Harry, Stamford and Lestrade, there’s a horrible amount of text messages from someone named ‘Linda’. Sherlock’s stomach turns upon opening them. He scrolls up and starts reading at a random point.

_That’s so funny! LOL! When can we finally meet?_

_I don’t know, yet._

_Have you changed your mind? ;)_

_No, I just don’t know when I’ll be able to come round. I’m a bit busy at the moment._

_That’s okay. Some things are worth waiting for. Let me know when you’ve got time! xoxo_

_I will, and thanks for understanding. What did you think of the finale last week?_

Sherlock stops reading. He notices that his vision has blurred and he’s not sure whether it’s the anger or tears blinding his vision. So John has been flirting with a woman; he even wants to meet up with her. His heart sinks even deeper into his chest when Sherlock realises that John has already given up on their marriage. Maybe he’s given up on his memories, too. He’s probably glad not to remember that he’s ever been married to a man. If that’s the case, Sherlock should do the right thing and let him go. It’s what he owes John; allow him a fresh start with that Linda woman and free him from the chains of their marriage.

“What are you doing there, Sherlock?”

Sherlock has been so deep in his thoughts that he hasn’t even heard John emerge from the bathroom. John is standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but his grey bathrobe, his arms crossed in front of him.

Sherlock knows what he has to do, but he hesitates. Just for a moment, he allows himself to store this image of John in his mind palace. It might be the last image of him wearing the wedding band with Sherlock’s initials. The last moment of John being his husband.

“I’ve checked your phone, John. And I saw the texts.”

John opens his mouth to say something but Sherlock silences him by raising his hand and standing up.

“You don’t need to say anything. It’s a miracle you fell in love with me the first time, I shouldn’t have expected it to happen again. But you could’ve at least talked to me before running off with the next best woman you could find.”

“Sherlock, that’s not what I was doing. It’s... complicated. My life has been a bloody mess these last couple of months and I don’t know what... I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? Can you understand that?” John presses his palms against his eyelids while talking, and Sherlock has to look away.

“No, I cannot. I would never do this to you, not after everything we’ve been through!”

“But I don’t KNOW what we’ve been through! For me it’s like I’ve only known you for a couple of months!” John has started to yell, which only makes Sherlock more furious.

“I know that’s what it’s like for you. But that’s not what it’s like for me! And you know what? I could never forget you, John. If anyone extracted my brain from my body they’d find you engraved all over it! There’s no way I could ever forget you.”

He immediately regrets the words once they’re out. That’s not what he intended to say. John’s expression has turned from anger to desperation and sadness.

“I mean, that’s not what I –“

“So you’re mad at me for having retrograde amnesia?! Do you think I wanted this?”

“No. I just don’t know what to do anymore, John. We’ve tried everything! If your memories don’t return this year, they probably never will. And the guilt is killing me, it’s my fault and I’m so, so sorry for causing all of this.”

“No, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m just tired of disappointing you.” John’s voice is full of resignation. He clears his throat before continuing. 

“Look, I wish I could love you as much as you love me, I really do. But for me this is all completely new. I’ve never been with a man, nor have I ever met someone like you. If we could just start over as friends and see how it turns out, I’d have more time and then maybe we could...” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Sherlock looks hopelessly, desperately at the only person he’s ever loved.

“I can’t do this anymore, John. Now that I know what I can have with you, I can’t possibly go back to just being friends again. To see you with other women again – it nearly killed me before and I don’t think I would survive it this time.”

John’s expression is honest and deep. “I understand that.”

Sherlock feels tears running down his face, but he doesn’t care. “I don’t know how to do this. How do you look at the man you love and tell him it’s time to walk away?” His voice is shaking now, and John takes a step closer.

“I don’t know, Sherlock.” He comes even closer and pulls Sherlock into a tight embrace. This one is different from their last one, although in the exact same spot. Sherlock tries to enjoy it one last time, but he’s burning inside.

John pulls apart after a while, but his hands rest on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I just want you to know that what happened to me wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. The fact that you wanted me to come along after work doesn’t change anything. Do you understand?”

Sherlock can’t help but be surprised. “You really think so?”

“Oh yeah, I really do. I was just angry that you didn’t tell me right away, not because I thought you were responsible for the accident. I’m trying to get my memories back and if you withhold information from me, it’s only going to be more difficult.” He slowly extracts his hands from Sherlock’s body and exhales audibly. 

“I should probably start packing.”

Sherlock nods and leaves the bedroom. He doesn’t notice what happens after that. It all feels numb. When John returns fully dressed and with a suitcase, Sherlock is sitting in his chair without any idea how he got there or how much time has passed. He distantly hears John putting on his coat and coming back into the living room. 

“So, I guess I’ll be spending the night in a hotel. Text me if you need anything.” He makes a step closer but apparently decides otherwise and picks up the suitcase, instead.

“I’m truly sorry, Sherlock.”

“I hope you know that I will always love you,” Sherlock says. His throat feels too dry. How could it have come this far?

John smiles at Sherlock and replies “I know,” before he turns around and leaves.

It’s hours later that Sherlock notices the golden piece of jewelry lying on the coffee table, burning itself into the deepest part of Sherlock’s heart.

***

For the next three weeks, Sherlock doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t do anything, either. It takes up all his energy trying to ignore the pain of having lost John and of knowing that he’ll never be with him again. His husband left, and he hasn’t returned. It is what it is. He should learn to accept it and move on.

But how could he ever move on from John Watson? How could he ever live, laugh, solve crimes, eat, sleep or breathe with knowing that the love of his life is out there without him? Suppressing his emotions has taken up all his strength; and after 19 and a half days Sherlock can feel his walls crumbling. He finds himself thinking about John and their horrible situation more often than not. 

Frankly, the old Sherlock, the one pre-John, never had problems with that. He had his feelings locked up in his mind palace for longer than he can remember. After Redbeard, he had learned to build up walls and not make the mistake of loving again. Because love was a dangerous disadvantage, found on the losing side. Only after he met John had he realised that love was also worth the pain, the sacrifice. And that love, true, real and selfless love, _was_ the winning side. 

But even after he’d met John, he’d still been able to keep his feelings under control. He managed for so long to keep the affection he felt for his flatmate at bay. With every passing day, he’d gotten better at concealing his lingering looks, his amazed gazes, his longing expressions towards John. Or had he? 

But now, so many years later, he finds himself unable to suppress his feelings. Now that he knows what it’s like to be held by John, to be kissed by John, to be loved by John, he can’t possibly return to his old self. And that’s the worst thing. Because deep down Sherlock knows he will never be able to exist without John again. In John, he found a person worth dying for, and, more importantly, a person worth living for. He needs him like air and water and the thought of never having him again makes his mind go blank. He’s trapped in a loophole of his own thoughts, he’s on the bottom of a well but he’s still falling, and he’s never climbing out.

***

Mrs. Hudson is in the flat, Sherlock distantly notices. She’s talking to him about her latest book club meeting or something similarly tedious, he’s stopped paying attention. He knows she’s mostly here to keep an eye on him. 

“And then I told her I’d be staying in London this year; that I’d be spending the holidays with you, and you know what she did? She hung up on me!”

Sherlock grunts in response.

“Anyway, I know I had promised her to visit over Christmas, but I can’t leave you alone now, can I? She should understand that, don’t you think so, dear?” 

Suddenly, her face is close and Sherlock blinks it into focus. Mrs. Hudson looks concerned.

“Sherlock?” she asks, but the ringing of the doorbell interrupts her. “Oh, I’d rather get that,” she adds and finally turns her attention away from him.

“If it’s Lestrade, tell him I’m busy,” Sherlock shouts after her. He’s definitely not in the mood for a case or a pitying look from Greg. “And if it’s my brother, tell him to piss off,” he adds for good measure. 

He can’t see anyone right now, or ever. The only companion he finds slightly tolerable is his landlady’s. When he hears two pairs of feet on the steps, he prepares to exclaim his request to be alone. But when he sees who’s standing next to Mrs. Hudson, the words die on his lips.

“John.”

“Erm, hello.” 

Sherlock has to blink to make sure the person in front of him isn’t a fata morgana. It’s John in a grey jumper and dark jeans, his deep blue eyes filled with insecurity and something else. For a moment, the two of them stare at each other, until Mrs. Hudson interrupts them by clearing her throat.

“I think I’ll leave you boys alone,” she says and closes the door behind her.

John is still fixed in his position in the door frame, so Sherlock stands up and walks over to him.

“What are you doing here?” he manages to get out. 

John shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. “I... I still don’t remember anything, Sherlock. But I – I was at the pub the other day with Greg. We’re actually getting along quite well. He’s told me more things about my old life. Anyway, he asked me about my plans for Christmas, since that’s a holiday you usually spend with your loved ones. And when I thought about the answer I realised I want to spend it with you.”

Sherlock’s head feels dizzy. Does that mean – could that mean...?

“I missed you,” John adds.

Sherlock wants to close the distance between them and hold John till the world ends. He closes his eyes for a second and fights the impulse instead. “I missed you, too.”

“I’m sorry for texting that woman, it was stupid. I wanted to find out whether that’s still what I wanted, I guess. But I couldn’t bring myself to meet her, not only out of guilt towards you but because I realised I didn’t want to.” 

His dark blue eyes are piercing into Sherlock’s now. He’s sincere, that much Sherlock can tell. A thousand questions are swirling in his head, but Sherlock seems to have lost the ability to speak. Is this really happening? Does John really want to come back to him? 

When Sherlock doesn’t reply, John continues. “I said before that I’ve never met someone like you. And it’s true. You’re rude to strangers, you never do the dishes, you keep human fingers in the fridge, you’re probably mad, and you’re absolutely brilliant. You’re honest and kind, incredibly intelligent and frustratingly attractive. You’re like a drug. I don’t know whether my memories will ever return. I don’t know whether I’ll ever know how I proposed to you, or how we danced at our wedding. But I do know that I want to be with you.” 

John’s expression shifts and his voice almost breaks when he adds:

“I’m sorry if it’s not enough but it’s everything I have.”

It’s enough for Sherlock to step forward, take John’s face into his hands and kiss him. The kiss is demanding and messy and wet, and it’s all Sherlock has ever wanted. He can’t believe that John still wants to be with him, even though he doesn’t remember the countless quiet evenings at Baker Street, the chases through London that cured his limp, or the dance lessons behind closed curtains. John doesn’t remember that Sherlock faked his own death for him, destroyed his reputation, his job and nearly his whole life for John. He doesn’t even remember their first kiss, the first sleepless night or the first time he called Sherlock his husband. And yet he wants to be with him anyway. The knowledge only makes Sherlock pull John closer with no intention of ever letting go.

***

On Christmas morning, Sherlock wakes up in John’s arms. He’s completely sprawled out on top of him, his face tucked underneath John’s chin, his lips close to John’s neck. When he hears John waking up, he lifts his head and looks down at the sleepy face beneath him. John slowly opens his eyes and starts to grin as soon as he sees Sherlock. 

“Good morning,” John says with a rough voice.

“A good morning indeed,” Sherlock replies. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” John tilts his head forward and places a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Let me make the breakfast for once.”

And with that, John gets out of bed and disappears into the kitchen. Sherlock stays in bed a bit longer, enjoying the feeling of his silk bedsheet and the comfortable mattress beneath him. After the accident he had slept on the couch for months and couldn’t bring himself to sleep in his bed when John left. When John returned a week ago and they spent the night in this bed together, Sherlock woke up without back pain for the first time in ages. This was also when he slept through the night for the first time in ages, but that had nothing to do with the mattress.

When he enters the kitchen in his wine coloured dressing gown, John is busy setting up the table, but looks up and pauses upon seeing Sherlock nonetheless. It smells of eggs, toast, tea and the Christmas tree John insisted on putting up.

“I’m not done, yet, you can go back to bed,” he says. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can help you.”

“Fine, then get two mugs please.”

Sherlock does as he’s told and fills the mugs with the tea John prepared. His eyes wander to the Christmas tree and he freezes upon seeing a wrapped up gift. This can’t be from Mrs. Hudson, or from Molly, or – he has to smirk at the very thought of it – from Mycroft. These people will only come around later for a (predictably boring) Christmas dinner that Sherlock would much rather exchange for a calm evening with John alone. So the present must be from John. And it must be for him.

His thoughts are interrupted when John’s index finger is poking into his side. 

“Sherlock? Everything alright?”

Sherlock swiftly turns around and focuses his attention to his husband. “You got me a present.”

“Yeah, it’s Christmas,” John says while shrugging his shoulders. “What’s wrong? Isn’t this what we usually do? Don’t we exchange gifts on Christmas?” His voice has started to sound tense.

“No, it’s fine. We do exchange presents, I just wasn’t expecting anything this year.”

“It’s okay if you don’t have anything for me, Sherlock. Really, it’s not that big a deal.” John takes Sherlock’s hand into his own. 

“It’s really just a small thing, not worth mentioning. You can return it if you don’t like it; I just saw it at the store the other day and couldn’t pass by.” John’s thumb is now drawing tiny circles across Sherlock’s hand, and it’s more calming and also arousing than it has any right to be.

“Fine,” Sherlock finally replies. “As it happens I do have a small present for you as well. Let’s eat and then we’ll open them up.”

They enjoy their breakfast together, talking about this and that. Obviously John still has a lot to catch up on, but it seems Greg did a pretty good job at providing him with information during the three weeks Sherlock wasn’t in contact with him. After the last toast is gone, Sherlock retrieves his gift from the pocket of his dressing gown. He thought about this for quite a while, but still isn’t sure whether John will like or even accept the gift. It’s a risk he has decided he’s willing to take.

John stares at the small unmistakable package and then looks up at Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, is that...?”

“You’ll have to open it up and see, isn’t that the point of exchanging presents?”

John carefully opens the package and reveals the black jewelry box that he doesn’t remember picking up at a store over two years ago. He opens it and his expression changes upon seeing the golden band inside. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want it, yet. I can place it back into the drawer, it was a stupid idea anyway,” Sherlock says. What the hell was he thinking? They’ve only been back together for a week.

But John slowly shakes his head, taking the ring out of the box and sliding it onto his ring finger without hesitance. The tension finally leaves Sherlock’s body.

“Thank you, Sherlock. I was afraid to ask you for it, and I’m glad I have it back. It’s the perfect gift.” He looks up at Sherlock and smiles. 

“Well, I’m glad you like it,” Sherlock replies with a smirk. They stare into each other’s eyes for a second, and Sherlock can’t believe his luck. He would thank the heavens for John Watson, if something as ludicrous as heaven existed. 

John blinks and gets up from his chair. He picks up the present from underneath the tree, sits back down and hands it to Sherlock. Sherlock carefully undoes the bow and removes the wrapping paper, feeling John’s eyes fixed on him.

The gift is the board game Cluedo, which John and Sherlock haven’t played in a long time. In fact, the last time they’d played, it ended with the board pinned to the wall above the mantelpiece. After that it was more Monopoly and card games for them. Sherlock grins.

“Thank you, John. That’s a good idea.” He looks up at John who seems genuinely pleased with himself.

“Yeah, I figured after I threw out the last one because of the hole right in the middle, it’d be nice to have a new board on hand if we ever feel like playing again.” 

Sherlock wants to reply but pauses instead. He didn’t tell John that he murdered their last board with a knife, and Lestrade couldn’t have known that.

“John, how do you know that?”

“Well, that was after you thought the victim had done it, right? I remember how –“ he stops and his eyes widen. “Oh my god.”

“Does that mean you –?”

“Yes! Yes, Sherlock, I remember that. I mean it’s just bits and pieces, but it’s definitely a memory.” 

For a moment, the two of them stare at each other, then simultaneously start smiling.

“This is amazing, John. We need to see Dr. Molder and ask about the consequences for your recovery immediately.”

“Let’s do that after Christmas, shall we? I just want to enjoy the holidays with you first.”

“Okay. Whatever you want to do, John. We can play Cluedo all day, if that’s what you want. We can even ask Mrs. Hudson or Mike Stamford to play along or...” Sherlock trails off because John is looking at him intensely. There’s a spark in his eyes that Sherlock hasn’t seen in a very long time. 

“I think I’ve got an idea.”

Before Sherlock has the chance to reply, his husband leans forward and kisses him. And it’s in that moment, the two of them kissing in the living room of 221B, with the bliss of the present and the promise of the future, that Sherlock thinks that even though they’ve been to hell and back, there’s nothing in the world that could ever stop him from loving John Watson.

**Author's Note:**

> Some feedback would be greatly appreciated!
> 
> The idea for this fic sparked when I saw "The Vow" for the tenth time, which obviously was an inspiration for some plot elements of this story.  
> The idea of a wedding in a beekeeping club was actually inspired by my own wedding, but I felt it worked great for Sherlock and John as well :)
> 
> Allsovacant wrote a poem & managed to put this story together in 122 beautiful words. Please check it out!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Forest of Memories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14700672) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [[Cover] A Forest of Memories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15011204) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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